


Shakta

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [15]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Strange Families, Unorthodox Child-Rearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor doesn't do kids.  At all.  But...this one is very cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shakta

**Author's Note:**

> A new member is added to the family - if this even passes for a "family". Mostly set during episodes 16 through 18.

The club is embarrassingly empty for the hour. Cobblepot is sitting with his back facing the entrance— _first mistake_ —intently focused on the violinist playing a melancholy tune, without taking an occasional glance to see if anyone new has come through the doors— _second mistake_ —and apparently so focused that he doesn’t even hear Victor until the latter decides to announce himself— _third mistake_ ; Victor knows he’s very quiet, as quiet as a mouse, but the door wasn’t.

“Hello, Penguin.”

Cobblepot nearly shoots out of his chair, turns to see Victor standing at the entryway, and attempts to compose himself. It’s too late; he’s shown his weakness and his complete vulnerability. If Victor hadn’t been here for another reason—one that requires the little man to be alive—he could have slit his throat and Cobblepot would have never seen it coming.

“Victor. How nice.” Cobblepot looks as though he’s swallowed a lemon; he snaps his fingers, like commanding a dog, and the violinist stands and makes a swift exit, two seconds after the fact. The little bird doesn’t know how to command anyone, not really, not yet.

“Don Falcone thinks you’re messing up.” He says, getting right to the point. Time is of the essence; Iris should be off shift very soon, and he’s hoping to personally collect her from the precinct, if he can get this over with quickly. 

Cobblepot’s jaw clenches and twitches, especially as Victor continues talking. “You don’t know how to run a club. Your numbers…” he searches briefly for the best word, then decides to be a gentleman about it, “stink.”

Predictably, Cobblepot gives a tight smirk and offers a highly condescending tone. “With all due respect—”

He doesn’t have time for this. “I didn’t come here to talk.” He cuts in, with a pointed threat on his tongue and a sharp gaze. That ridiculous _with respect_ phrase always precedes some lengthy babble; he doesn’t like lengthy and he hates babbling, unless it’s for mercy.

Cobblepot’s next breath comes out very tightly through his flared nostrils. “Good manners cost nothing, you know?”

Alright, enough is enough; he has work to do and a date to make. With a sharp whistle, he watches with growing delight as Cobblepot turns, following Victor’s line of sight, sees Butch, and promptly loses every bit of composure in his body. He trips over the chair, crashes into the table, and stumbles twice over his own feet in the attempt to get as far away from Butch as possible. It’s great entertainment.

“Relax.” he says, still grinning at the way Cobblepot has just embarrassed himself and is presently standing beside Victor, half a step away from cowering behind him like an injured puppy. “He’s harmless.” Turning attention back to Butch, he drops the amused expression and resumes a serious one. “Say hi, Butch.”

“Hi.” The large man dutifully answers; his posture is perfect, hands folded neatly at the front, and eyes straight ahead. _Excellent._

It takes a few extra minutes of reassurances for Cobblepot to even consider Butch might not pull out a gun and fire a few rounds at him. Even then, with the promise that Butch will follow every command he’s given, Cobblepot looks apprehensive. Eager to test it out, as evidenced by his given order for Butch to dance—and Victor has to resist rolling his eyes because, really, when one is told someone will do _exactly what you say_ , a tap-dancing routine is the first thing to come to mind?—but still a little disbelieving. That should change soon enough.

Butch does as he’s told, without hesitation and without question, and after five minutes of hearing his heels tap the wooden floors, Victor is getting a headache. Not to mention, this is a little embarrassing to watch. _This_ is what two weeks of Iris’ work have amounted to? He’s halfway devastated on her behalf. Hopefully she never has to see this mess.

Then, without warning, a sharp _crack_ of a heeled shoe striking the floor echoes throughout the room. Butch stops dancing and immediately stands at attention once more; he looks afraid. Very, very afraid…Victor can see his hands shaking at both sides. Which means there can be only one person standing behind them right now.

“Well done, Butch.” Iris’ voice sounds like sweet music, gliding upon the air as she comes closer, footsteps much softer this time, _click, click, click, click._ “And you are going to be whatever Mr. Cobblepot needs, yes?”

“Yes, Miss DeLaine.” Butch answers dutifully, almost reverently. “Just as you and Mr. Zsasz taught me.”

 _Oh_ , that was a beautiful touch. Cobblepot looks quite indignant, obviously realizing just what implications that comment makes, but Victor couldn’t be happier. Iris did wonderful work with Butch. Absolutely wonderful work. He intends to do the same with Fish.

Then he turns around, spots Iris standing a short distance away, and forgets all about Fish Mooney, and Butch, and Penguin. She looks so very lovely today; slacks, boots, and sweater beneath a sleek black coat, full-length, with a plush crimson scarf wrapped artfully around her head and throat. Her dark curls peek out beneath the scarf’s protection, braided loosely with plenty of tendrils spiraling loose and free around her cheeks, which are currently sporting a most fetching little blush from the chill outside. Victor nearly licks his lips; he wants to undress her tonight, all by himself. It will be just like unwrapping a birthday present.

Within her arms is a curious little bundle, hidden by a blanket. She meets his eye and nods over to the corner, away from any other company; she looks excited. Slightly apprehensive, but very excited. His curiosity is officially peeked.

When he joins her at the far corner, she reaches up with one hand, gently tugs the blanket back with gloved fingers, and his head spins wildly at the sight that greets him. Iris is holding a tiger.

Specifically, she is holding a tiger cub. It looks very young, perhaps only a few days old, a small mass of snow-white fur with a pink nose and the sharpest, most vibrant blue eyes he’s ever seen—save for Iris’. Those eyes find him, watch him come a little closer, and it immediately burrows deeper into Iris’ arms. It’s afraid, uncertain of this creature that is so much larger than itself, and instinct says to find comfort and protection. It shows no fear of Iris, which tells him this little cub is very attached to her. And young enough that, quite possibly, it believes Iris to be it’s mother.

He reaches out and touches the cub’s small head; it quivers and shies away, and that’s when he remembers the gloves. The leather is probably unsettling and especially cold with the dropping temperatures outside. Iris’ hands, though similarly gloved, have been tucked within protective layers and can only be warm. He catches the tip of one finger in his teeth, tugs twice, and then tries again with bare hands. He knows at least his skin is warm, protected by the glove; sure enough, when he runs fingers through the soft fur, the cub doesn’t shy away this time. It still appears uncertain, a little frightened, but it likes the way Victor rubs right at the base of the skull. It likes it a lot.

“Where,” he whispers, staring in rapt fascination at these new circumstances, “did you find her?”

“James took Dr. Thompkins and I out for a little date at the circus.” Iris says; she doesn’t look very impressed by the memory. She never did care for circuses very much. She finds clowns among the most disturbing individuals on the planet. “During the performance, a little spat between rivaling families revealed a most unseemly crime scene. I went exploring while James dealt with the matter, and in the process discovered this little darling.” She smiles down at the cub, “A newborn without a mother.”

“Dead?”

“Her mother rejected her. She is the runt.” Iris’ smile is nothing shy of adoring. “The ringmaster was fit to be rid of her. I could not allow that.”

“You and that bleeding heart, sweet girl.” He smirks, but affectionately. The cub is pressing it’s head back against his fingers, as though trying to direct and guide the little neck massage he’s giving, free of charge. “So, what have you named her?”

“Shakta.” She says, and the cub immediately turns a blue-eyed gaze upward, ears perked and alert. Iris’ smile grows until she’s practically beaming. “Yes, my little one. You already know your name, do you not?”

Victor’s smirk broadens. “And you’re making introductions because…?”

“Can I not make introductions without an ulterior motive?” she frowns as though wounded. “And even if I _did_ have ulterior motives, you are rushing me into them. We have all night to ourselves, Victor; do not rush this.”

He gives her five more minutes, enough time for them to take their leave through the front door with the little one safely tucked beneath the blanket once more, and then asks again. She rolls her eyes, makes a comment about his lacking patience, and then asks if he would be willing to take little Shakta in. There are, apparently, a few code violations to be considered if she kept an exotic animal in the apartment. People have no understanding when it comes to varying definitions of _pet_.

“And does the little fur ball come with or without her mistress?” Victor asks, adjusting his collar against the biting wind; the gust brings a wave of cigarette smoke billowing into his face, from a nearby offender. He happens to catch the man’s eye, in the middle of another puff, and watches with a hidden smirk as the man sees the look on his face, swallows back the smoke, struggles to hold it until Victor and Iris have passed, and then erupts into a violent hacking fit. The kind of cough that would easily bust a lung, if not cause serious damage to the esophagus lining. Such a shame.

Iris falls silent, five minutes too long, and he physically stops walking in order to catch her by the arms and bring her closer. “Iris.” He says, quietly and with great emphasis on her name.

“Home.” She says, sidestepping him and escaping the grip that wasn’t terribly tight to begin with. He could stop her, if he was so inclined, but she seems concerned with her little one’s health and this cold probably isn’t the best for something so small and so frail.

He lets her get through the door of his house, watches as she makes a path straight for the bedroom, and then settles on the mattress edge with Shakta, rearranging the blanket into a nest. He watches from the door, with amusement, as the cub promptly adjusts the blanket according to her preference, then curls into a very tight and very small mound of white fur and falls asleep again. Iris smiles at her, brushing a light touch over her forehead, and then sighs quietly.

“I resigned.”

***

There was a time, many years ago, when Victor—as a small, highly curious, and highly uninformed little lad—discovered the law of gravity; that certain objects, when they interact with a rapidly-approaching force, do not possess any kind of elasticity, and when you hit them, with any kind of force—however unintentional—they will fall and not return to their upright position. In fact, they will fall and, if they happen to be something called _fragile_ , they will break. 

And such was his introduction to gravity, when his mother’s Oriental porcelain vase happened to be in the way of his exploratory expedition down the banister railing. Socks and bare hands aren’t very useful as brake pedals, not on polished wood, and so off the rail he went, and down the vase went, straight to the tiled floors. It just happened to be the occasion when his father had very important guests over, in the sitting room, not fifteen feet away, and in an otherwise silent foyer with cathedral ceilings and excellent acoustics, porcelain shattering on tile sounds something like a tank firing a missile.

He wasn’t aware that words, spoken very softly and in a much smaller room, could have the same effect. Apparently, they can.

“You what?”

“I resigned.” Iris answers again, holding his gaze with impressive steadiness. Shakta has rearranged herself to press firmly against Iris’ clothed thigh, and she’s currently purring in her sleep, with the tip of her tail twitching left to right, right to left. It would be adorable if he weren’t otherwise distracted.

“You resigned.” He repeats, slowly; it makes him feel rather imbecilic to echo her words when they really don’t need to be, but he needs to hear them out loud, from his own tongue, to make them somewhat real. “Why did you resign?”

Iris looks at him like he’s an idiot, which doesn’t help him already feeling like one. “Why?” she says, incredulous. “I would think the answer is obvious, Victor.”

“My brain is having technical difficulties today.” He retorts with a dry tone, lifting his eyebrows. “Humor me.”

She stares at him a moment longer, one hand distractedly running fingers through the cub’s fur, and he has a brief, overwhelming, but borderline inappropriate desire for that to be him. “I resigned because I love you.” She finally says, as though it is the most obvious answer in the world. “I love you, and I will not help them hunt you. Even if they can never catch you, it is their intention to do so, and I will not help them do it.”

The silence is very heavy between them, but his brain really must be short-circuiting because he can’t break it with some intelligent, coherent, reasonable answer. He’s not even sure words will come out if he opens his mouth and tries. He may sound like a newborn infant again, and that is just embarrassing to consider.

Iris’ expression slowly shifts from incredulous to anxious, teeth worrying at her lower lip as she ponders the look on his face—he doesn’t know exactly what he looks like right now, but it’s obviously grounds for concern on her part—and slowly swallows. “For God’s sake, Victor, say something.”

 _Don’t bring God into this_ , he thinks but can’t say, not with his tongue feeling like lead and his mouth tasting like sandpaper. God would strike him down for all the thoughts currently running through his head, ranging from a simple kiss to a very explicit fantasy about taking her across the desk in the medical examiner’s office. Preferably if she’s wearing that sharp pencil skirt and button-up blouse again, because she was just a treat in that ensemble.

“Victor?” she slowly stands up, disturbing the cub’s resting place, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Victor, please,” she sounds far more concerned now, perhaps even frightened and fearful that she’s genuinely upset him, “say something.”

“The things you do for me…” he says, finally regaining some idea of coherency, “This city has no heart for those who dance with the devil, Iris.”

“This city has no heart and no mercy for anyone.” She answers, taking a few steps closer, hands already reaching out for his and quickly weaving her fingers within his. “They have learned the dangers of having a heart. A heart can get you killed.”

“So can the wrong associations.”

“You speak as though you are my weakness, Victor.” She tugs him forward, until there is little space between them. “Why do you regard love as a weakness?”

He would have thought the answer was obvious; for one, he’s said to have no heart, no soul, only a hollow shell with a taste for blood and a passion for death. An animal, a freak, only a monster and never a man. She knows who and what he is. It’s not too far an assumption to declare she knows him better than anyone. She knows how he thinks, she’s seen the actions that follow every thought, and there are no secrets between them. He tried keeping secrets between them, once, and he’s never done it since. It ended badly last time.

“You told me,” Iris continues, obviously trying to pull something out of him besides silence, “you knew love. You _loved_ once and you _were loved_ once. You know you are loved. Are you afraid to love? Are you afraid to love _me_?”

His pride prompts him to speak immediately, declaring he is not afraid of anything and his tone is sharp enough to emphasize the point, but there is another part of him that, would he have utilized it before resorting to pride alone, might have kept him silent before speaking. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand any of this. He’s not. He’s not afraid of anything. _Fear_ is not the issue here.

“I can’t love you.” He replies, eyes unblinking, tone cold and flat. Another woman would probably break down and burst into tears and all manner of dramatics would follow. Iris blinks, no ripple of emotion appearing on her face, and sighs quietly.

“Cannot, or will not?”

***

Iris has to wrap up some loose ends at the precinct, including almost five hours with Jim Gordon. _Five hours._ He lasted about twenty minutes into the first hour before he couldn’t take it anymore. Sitting in one place, twiddling his thumbs, only leaves him agitated and in a very foul mood. And a foul mood gives him a massive headache.

Being alone, neglected in the dark, without any real sensory input for over two weeks, has not been good for Fish but has been wonderful for his intentions. She is hyper-sensitive to every sound in the room, her eyes are blood-shot, and she’s dehydrated. He’s given her a little food here and a little water there, because he can’t work on a starved corpse, but never enough water to really keep her hydrated. She’s teetering on the edge, just where he wants her.

By the third hour, he’s been playing with ice cubes and heated needles. The abrupt change of hot and cold, frozen water to white-hot metal, wet to sharp, sends Fish’s nerves into a frenzy. She doesn’t scream, not yet, but he’s taking his time. There is no need to rush this. He has lots and lots of time with her.

Halfway through the fourth hour, he begins to hear a little sound from the basement door, followed by what sounds like scratching. _Scritch, scratch, scritch, scritch._ He finishes by strapping Fish’s arms outward and placing them above a low-burning flame. Nothing that will completely scald her flesh off, but enough that she most certainly won’t be comfortable, to put it mildly. He has never used a low-burning flame before on human flesh. He’s excited to see what it does.

Shakta is sitting by the door when he opens it, blue eyes wide and gazing up at him with great rapture. She mews quietly and paws lightly at his trouser leg. She is, really, very precious.

“To think,” he says, crouching down and collecting her in both arms, “someone was going to put a bullet in your little head. What is this world coming to?”

While he cleans and sharpens the knives, Shakta makes herself comfortable in his lap. She doesn’t sleep, but instead watches him. After about five minutes, he notices she’s sniffing at his sleeve. Sniffing very intently, very deliberately, and she’s inching closer, bit by bit. She’s clearly a little uncertain, apprehensive, but is following a greater instinct that overrides her fear. It doesn’t take long for him to realize just what she’s smelling.

He won’t pretend to know much about tigers. Iris calls him her tiger, but he really doesn’t know anything about them. He’s seen pictures, yes, and they are truly incredible animals from a visual standpoint, but that’s the limits of his knowledge. He does, however, know they are carnivores, and he knows what carnivores eat, and he does know that large predatory animals have a remarkable sense of smell.

Logic also says the poor thing is probably at a loss. She’s in a new environment, with humans who aren’t putting her in a cage but she’s not sure what they want with her and she’s not sure what to do with them. She clearly does have affection towards Iris, but Iris isn’t here. He doesn’t have to care, of course, but she is very precious and so very lost in these new surroundings. And she’s so young. It reminds him of Iris.

It’s not hard to see the similarities. The snow-white coloring that holds the same purity of Iris’ skin, the black streaks slowly developing that looks like Iris’ beautiful hair, and those eyes. Those eyes…he looks at her and she looks at him, and he can see Iris. He wonders if, within the curious workings of a tiger cub’s mind, Shakta attached to Iris because she saw the blue eyes and saw a mother. A mother who wouldn’t reject her or dismiss her, based on size alone.

He’s never envisioned Iris as a mother. She’s never expressed an interest in having children, not even his, which is perfectly fine because he isn’t sure what he’d do with a baby, even if it was his. He’s never been given an assignment that directly involves children; there have been a few moments when he’s dealt with someone who has kids, and they’ve been screaming and wailing in the background while he does his work—which, for the record, is incredibly distracting—but Don Falcone has never told him to execute a child. Except for Iris.

“You have quite a bit in common, the two of you.” he says, brushing his thumb firmly across her brow ridge. It’s ridiculous, to be talking to an animal as though it can respond, but Shakta does look very attentive, as though she understand what he’s saying. “The two of you know what it’s like, to have the ones who were meant to love you reject you. It hurts, doesn’t it?”

Of course, Shakta doesn’t answer, but she does shift forward and licks his sleeve. Her tongue brushes his wrist in the process; it feels like wet sandpaper. She licks again, this time catching the sleeve in her mouth and making some attempt to suckle the cloth. It’s actually quite cute.

He knows a little cub should be fed milk; he’s watched Iris bottle feed her, day after day, with religious dedication. But there’s something else he can give this little one. Something a little…richer. Nothing in excess, just a little treat, now and then, while she’s growing.

He waits until Shakta falls asleep on the sofa, makes sure she has a blanket nearby to use, if she needs it, and then leaves. The night is cold, a refreshing burst of chill against his face, and the streets are dark. Dark, shadowy, with the sun lowering over the buildings; this is his time. This is the time when he hunts and finds his prey. And he has prey to find tonight. A father needs to provide for his little one.

There are plenty of people out and about tonight. He remembers a time when he would hunt only for lovely specimens, the kind he could ensnare like a spider baiting his net, and then wrap the fly up and drain it of dignity, outward beauty, and blood. Tonight, he has no interest in women. Women are curves and soft skin and nothing more. There are some specimens with more fat than others, but never anything of sustenance, and that is what he needs. Tonight, he needs muscle.

He spots a few potential candidates, but none really catch his attention. Two of them are on the lean side; one is too bulky, and two others look like they’re on steroids. He’s certainly not putting drugs inside that precious creature. Her tiny system will never be able to handle it.

Then, after wandering the streets for about half an hour, he finds the perfect one. This is a fellow who takes great and genuine pride in his body, in his outer appearance. His body is toned, chiseled to perfection. This is natural muscle tone, the kind made by repetitive and consistent work at the gym, eating well, and monitoring everything that goes into his body. He’s perfect. Just perfect.

A blitz from behind takes care of any resistance; a knife across the throat makes it quick, far quicker than he’d normally like, but it’s a worthy sacrifice. It seems like a bit of a waste, to only collect a small sample and leave the rest, but there’s too much here for Shakta to eat all at once. She’s not big enough yet for such large meals. When she’s grown a bit more, that will change.

When he returns with the prize in hand, Shakta is no longer on the couch. It stands to reason she might be exploring—having discovered no one is trying to put her in a cage ensures quite a bit of freedom, and a child’s curiosity does need to be satisfied on a regular basis—and fortunately there are very few places in which she can be. The house is small, and she tends to stand out.

Oddly enough, he can’t find her in any of the usual places; she likes to climb up on ledges, and he’s already found her twice on top of the bookshelf, but not tonight. The only place left is the bedroom, and before he even steps over the threshold, he knows he’s found the right place, because through the partially-closed door, he can hear Iris singing.

He’s heard her sing only once before, in her younger days. She’s had no formal training, and very likely tuned her voice by listening in a variety of artists and working very diligently to imitate the different ranges. Consequently, she doesn’t really have a vocal range of her own, not in the traditional sense. She can do an impressive soprano attempt and then can easily shift nearly to a much lower range. He personally prefers her speaking to singing, but right now, in such a soft and delicate tone, it sounds very pleasant.

He carefully nudges the door open and slips inside. Iris is still dressed, without the scarf and coat, and has Shakta rapidly falling asleep in her lap, fingers combing through white fur. He’s never heard the song before, but the words aren’t English—Russian, actually—and it sounds like a lullaby she might have learned years prior. Not from her mother, certainly, but he finds it very likely her grandmother might have taught it to her.

When the song ends, Iris carefully lifts the cub in her arms and repositions her near the edge of the bed, tucked within a nest of blankets. Shakta twitches, and then nothing. She’s clearly had a very long, very tiring day. It must be wonderful to just sleep life away without a care.

Before Iris can step away to the bathroom, he catches her in both arms, brings her tight to his chest, and kisses her, starting at the forehead and working a slow path down her jaw, over one cheek, and then finally her lips. She’d have the right to refuse him, probably even strike him, given how their last real conversation ended, but she doesn’t. She lets him have her lips for a few sweet moments, and then gently pulls back.

“What is that?” she asks, spotting the container in his hand. He smiles thinly, twists open the lid, and reveals its contents. Iris’ eyebrows lift and she shakes her head, but she’s smiling with dry amusement

“You are spoiling her already.”

His smirk grows as he kisses her crown, twice. “It’s a father’s duty in life, to spoil his children.” He kisses her again, savoring the scent of winter on her hair and skin. “And to ensure they grow strong and ready for this world.”

“Look at you, already taking on the role.” She smirks, watching as he releases her and kneels at the mattress edge, murmuring softly and brushing a touch over Shakta’s brow. The cub stirs awake, blinks a few times, and then her ears perk up, her nose twitches, and she leans a little closer, sniffing eagerly.

He doesn’t spoil her completely; letting her have too much all at once might upset her stomach. He opts instead to dip his fingers in the blood and then extend them to the little pink tongue already lapping hungrily. One paw wraps heavily around his wrist, keeping it in place, while she licks and licks and licks and licks. _Greedy little thing._

“You know, Victor,” Iris murmurs, sitting on the bed, still smirking as she watches Shakta attempt to suckle his fingers dry, “I do believe she likes you.”


End file.
